At the risk of being considered a sissy by those of hard-nosed countenance, I have a paean to offer.  The pianist and I use on our beds,  blankets our respective mothers made over 40 years ago for us.  They are used in praise , remembrance and talismanic connection to our past.
       The pianist's blanket her mother made is a soft blue, brown and white in a zigzag pattern strictly uniform, crocheted, crisp and perfectly preserved . My mother's blanket for me was a looser, block knit, tan, brown and orange with a touch of white and tasseled.  Both are beautifully finished as could be expected by these women in their late 70's at that time.  My blanket is smaller than the blanket of the pianist since my mother was more impatient than her mother,  so would have quit a bit earlier in the process to do other things .                 When my mother provided me with my satin smooth blanket in infancy that I used  until I was three, it was my talisman.  It was her breast when I slept alone and gave me comfort and safety.. My mother went away for three weeks and my auntie Mildred looked after me. She said to me , "Jim you are a big boy now you are three. You don't need a blanket any more. "  And she took it away. Blanket gone, mother gone, I had to be brave.  When Robert Munch wrote his book about his mother called "Love  You Forever " it stunned me with its beauty and gave meaning again to the meaning of motherhood and the continuity of love and care through life for one another.
         The blanket  for the bed and chair today gives warmth and comfort and a curious embrace that reflects what they gave to us long ago, along with a continuity with the past the blankets still provide. Why did I not realize that the many years after my life  at age three, were so dangerous till I rediscovered the gift from my mother in my latter years and have become safe again ?  What incredible dangers the pianist and I encountered during those times in life where we neglected to credit blanket power ! It's never too late to learn anew, what you only knew as an infant.  Safe at last !

As Christmas nears I am reminded of a  Christmas pageant I participated in when we lived in Kindersley when I was fourteen.  It may be the first recorded instance of a karaoke in history on the bald prairie. There was a paucity of singers in our class at school to match the need for those to celebrate the Holy Family, angels, shepherds,, kings and barn animals in the Bethleham shed
       I was designated by the teacher as one of the three kings who brought gifts to the baby and my gift was Myrrh, said to be a bitter perfume and used to mask the odor of a cadaver in the country after death. As the third king ; though we were really kings in name, not in fact, but astronomers and wise man from Persia. At least this is the story as I knew it at fourteen.
       All of us, Kings, shepherds, angels and Holy Family were dressed in appropriate costume along with the braying barnyard in unison as the songs went on in the pageant. My turn to sing solo was the verse  about my gift in the hymn,  "We Three Kings "  as I handed the Myrrh to the Holy Child. Because of the role of Myrrh my demeanor was to be sorrowful and gloomy in keeping with the prophetic nature portended by the gift .
        A few days before the pageant a strange thing happened to me and I emitted croaking sounds rather than the bitterly but sweet sounds that I had hitherto produced. My voice had decided to change. It was unclear whether this was temporary or not so we continued to wing it,  as my costume was good and my facial efforts were suitably gloom-ridden.  The day of the pageant the teacher made a decision.
        Lorraine  Collins , an angel, would position herself directly behind me and sing my part., but I would make all the mouth movements and gestures silently to the audience, both of the chorus and my solo verse. Lorraine had a sweet piping and joyous voice and she turned it on in spades. It was not a boy- like voice. She joyously sang,  "  Myrrh is mine,  its bitter perfume;"
                           "Braeths a life of gathering gloom:"
                           "Sorrowing sighing bleeding dying;"
                           " Sealed in a stone cold tomb "
     As I mouthed, sorrowing, sighing, bleeding and dying to the joyous rendition as Lorraine accompanied me, I even then thought,   "t I will give up karaoke forever."                 

I'm not talking about sports !  Re-creation is serious business . Listening to the current concerns that mankind will falter with the expected looming changes in climate, food production, and population gives a new sense of urgency that we must alter the environment.
       When Jacob Bronoski wrote the screenplay for The Ascent of Man, his thesis was that mankind itself was capable of adapting to changes,  and not a victim of the natural environment as were some other life forms. The capacity for abstract reasoning and foresight;  the ability to change, adapt and thrive in all manner of adversity, was in the past, and still is, in its best measure, peculiar to mankind alone.  We don't have to mutate in order to survive. Civilizations came and went, but mankind evolved in its capacity to adapt. The vulnerability  of the less adaptable  life forces that surround us will depend upon the human capability to address the changes to come, in the interest of all.
        Currently pessimism seems rampant !  The media is full of dirt and gloom .  The comment boards are dominated by the haters and polemicists . The Jeremiads are in full gallop down the hill .
          In our little group this week we discussed the sins of the flesh we all possess ,We spoke about how it was necessary to repress these desires in order to function in society.  We took note of the selfish side of ourselves that sees the world as there for our immediate needs. What we didn't talk about was the nobility of mankind ;  the love, the drive ,the intellect;  the willingness of people to sacrifice to the greater common good and to put off immediate gratification for a later and greater good. I brought this up with the group but it went nowhere  since we all prefer speaking of sin over goodness and lack over gift.
         Surely there is a balance in mankind that has become obscured lately.  If we are to survive and thrive in these seasons of change, then re-creation will need to occur with the opening,  not closing,  of the human spirit:  we cannot hunker down, but must utilize the ever present noble side of our nature to open up and embrace the challenge of change with optimism.
         In the meantime, the downfall of some of us is procrastination.  Capability is never a substitute for implementation. Mankind has more at stake than his own survival.
      
       
       

In retrospect a possible useful service a parent can offer to a boy in his early teens is to accept the fact that the father can be a mirthful linguistic foil by him and his friends, a term to affirm needed distancing. I learned through some sort of  grapevine inadvertently, that I was referred to by that diminutive set as  Fat Elvis.
       I had more girth at that time in the 60's than Elvis did, but  showed it had more to do with the mirthful monikers applicable to the unworthiness  of my hair, thinning but a feeble intent to emulate the singer
with my hair  style at that time rather than my singing voice or any  disreputable pelvic motion I attempted to display. I wasn't particularly dismayed by this description as I recall, because I considered the source.  Besides, I had heard of  the range of all the school teachers of that age group that had mirthful monikers  appended which were litmus test indicators for whatever the perceived shortcomings this youthful entourage considered worthy of comment.  Even bad press in those days was an acknowledge that you exist and are a  looming presence.  I just celebrated the fact that a little derision, particularly with your friends when bravado is needed , remains part of a important and necessary distancing process for early adolescence.
       Elvis Presley  and I   were identical ages and Heaven knows there were worse labels applied to an aging parent than Elvis, fat or not. My case was quite benign and the simile was a step up for a plump and tuneless surgeon, however hapless in the eyes of the pediatric 5th column. Little did they realize the pleasure of comparison with one of the world's better voices and master of rhythm.  As long as it was behind my back I could let it go happily and unacknowledged until now.; fifty years later. now the record is out. Like most conditions in life, if you wait a bit, in good humor, it gets better,  The distancing becomes funnily redemptive and the relationship affectionately blessed.

      

Years ago I was a member of a college council. Our CEO had a painting by Jack Shadbolt in his office that a fellow doctor had donated to the college.  It was well known that the painter liked to retrieve his paintings at a later date and revise things he had decided he wasn't pleased with. He was an important Vancouver painter and owners probably never refused him.
      The painting of ours that I recall was of the old Marpole wooden footbridge at the end of the street. The artist had painted people standing on the bridge looking down at the water of the Fraser Arm. He repainted the foreground to his satisfaction and returned the revised work.
       It would be tough to collect all the books that one sold and to change the lines that offended oneself. Certainly,  if you haven't sold the copyright you can republish the book without the dirty or underwhelming bits,  but that doesn't change what is already out there.
       It's tough to alter the lines in your  past where they are troubling.  You just have to forgive yourself and crank up every morning with the new knowledge and the new humility you may be blessed with. Then one can republish oneself with the current received wisdom, where again, thank God, you still own your own copyright.  Never sell it !  Once you have republished yourself , you can go and make a new set of mistakes for your life.
        Unlike the occasional painting,  there is no pigment opaque enough to cover up the original me.  At . least be an open book to oneself.  I guess editing oneself is a lifelong process, but if you don't publish sometime,  then you aren't here at all.  Shit happens, but humble pie always has enough calories to help one grow bigger.

Write your own moral stand

and designate it as the high road

Cut away from those who don't walk it

Enjoy your heady view

Your standpoint allows it and your ramparts seem secure

and

You are worthy to gather up the crumbs

You think you are worthy to eat the whole loaf

But

Your concrete doesn't bind

The  stones loosen and roll

It's a long way to fall

All is vanity.

Who gets to eat the most, and why is it just or fair, and are they the same thing?  With justice you get what you deserve.  With fairness you deserve to get what they get.
      The pianist and I were sitting in the car the other day having lunch in Beacon Hill Park.  It was cold outside so we ate in the car rather than on the park bench by the flower beds.  Soon, the Mallards, man and wife, gaudy and plain, two striking looking seagulls and several funereal looking crows wandered around hoping for a free meal.  The crows were the first to identify the eaters in the car. When the pianist had the fill of her sandwiches she tore off her crusts to feed the ducks who were at first oblivious, but now the closest having been attracted to the car by the crows.  The ducks, despite their conjugality, began to vie with one another  politely and just ramped up the waddle to eat their fill.
        The seagulls rushed over, but the the safe distance in proximitry they allow to humans is further than the ducks do, so they were nearly out of range from the spoils.  Now , the pianist likes ducks better than seagulls, even if the gulls are admittedly more beautiful, but she is compelled to insist on fairness, called  sharing,  , not rewarding !  The result had her straining to meet the gulls cries with her throwing arm. The gulls may be beautiful but they are stupid,  so when food looms they sound off rather than shutting up and eating so when their colleagues inevitably arrived they had to fight them for the food tidbits. It's hard to call it justice when the benefactor has to strain to give you what you need and you summon your friends and then battle for it with them. The gulls scream , "Sea me, see me, see me !"  At least that's how it sounds.
        The pianist in the interest of fairness and accommodation took pity and hurled the crust as far as it would fly to them. I think this is concern for equitable distribution and a female characteristic arising from the matronly urge to meet the needs of the long and the short and the tall. I think justice would give the gulls zilch.
        The  cecophony from the seagulls drew more and more agitation from the crows who arrived in force,  but they have an even longer allowable safe distance from the attainable human food source. It was impossible for her to meet their need.  They looked forlorn as the pianist tried to break bread with them. They just couldn't outmuscle the gulls and couldn't cozy up to the humans like the ducks and the pianist couldn"t throw far enough to moving targets.
        Crows are smarter than gulls and faster than ducks, but if they want justice they are going to have to work at it like everyone else, use their brains and take risks to finesse the big guys! Or else eat alone what you can get1  Justice doesn't come without a price  !  For fairness you have to freeze the big guys !

  I often fished at Pedder Bay south of Lotus City, and the most productive  area was the mouth of the bay  around the Race Rocks where the sea life was in full swing , and the top of the food chain, the Killer Whales were abundant.
        At that time in the 70's a local entrepreneur  had developed a market for captured killer whales and Pedder Bay was used to create a holding pen for those herded Orca to be sold to provide  stock for marine shows throughout  North America.  Since our boat was moored in Pedder Bay often in the summer the whale enclosure was often a point of interest.
      Several Orca were confined in a good portion of the inner bay by submerged netting with surface floats that were well demarcated and the whales could be seen swimming at the surface of the pen. My friend Bill and son Robert and I were fishing one beautiful summer afternoon and I said to Bill who had not been to Pedder Bay before,  " Have you ever heard of the Corral of the Killer Whales before? "  " No ", he said .
       I told him we would drift close to it so he could take a good look.  On the way back from the fishing at the mouth of the bay I cut off the engine when we were near the pen so we could sit at our leisure and watch.  Big mistake !  I was not prepared for how fast the tide was running and since we were without power the boat slid gracefully over the netting and into the center of the corral. The whales had company.
       My boat was a displacement hull and the propeller was three feet below the water line. I could envision in that instant ripping out the netting with my propeller creating enough of a rent in the pen to allow several million dollars worth of whales make their escape.  I was on my own. Bill went to the cabin to make a cup of coffee, Robert was happy to be with the whales. The whales were content to swim around us in greeting but they may have thought the savior has arrived.
        A savior I couldn't be, but it crossed my mind:  Ruskin's Pathetic Fallacy. Realty would come forty or fifty years later to people when the Orca are revered for different reasons than Marine Show Stoppers.  I couldn't chance powering over the edge of the net with a running propeller so I started the boat engine at the end of the net and raced to the other side cutting the engine at the last minute and gliding over it , thank God. I struggled to hear what they had to say as I left and I think I heard ,  " Freedom ."  It's easy to now-a-days indulge in Pathetic Fallacy.

Out of interest and curiosity I attended an Alternative Therapy Conference on back pain. It was an interesting experience to listen to the diverse opinions and the conclusions with which the proponents of the various treatments  described their results. At a break in the conference for lunch, I was seated next to a young woman practitioner of a discipline of which I was not familiar. We engaged in a short conversation as she seemed very pleasant and was surprised when I told her that I was a medical doctor.
       She replied, " Pardon me for saying this, but why is it that medical doctor's handwriting is usually illegible? "
         " Well " I said, " We are taught to write badly. In the second year of the medicine course,  " How to Write Badly 201 is taught. "
           " How can that be ? "  she said credulously.  I waited for a glint of humour in those eyes,  but it didn't appear.
           " Well, "  I said, piling it on, " We can't be held responsible for what we write, since no one can read it but us. "
          "  Good Heavens , " she said,  " I didn't know that ! "  I looked in vain for any sign of amusement in that serious mien.  So up the ante was my desperate way to deal with the matter.  Surely in that stretch she would see that i was joking.
          "  Yes "  I said.  ' And in the course in third year medicine, " How to Mumble 301," will complete the skill set, how to communicate without doing so .  That way  we avoid any trouble such as   " you said this or that. "
         "  Well"  she said, as she rose from the table,  " I'm glad you told me that. "
       I could see that I was in deep trouble. She didn't get it .  My humour fell flat . To disavow it now would be disingenuous, and reaffirm what she wished to believe, even possibly in the first place.  I had just trashed myself and medicine in the face of an attempt at ill-advised humour in the wrong arena. I could imagine the furtive looks of disgust from the assembly of attendees in the coffee hour later.  I slunk away and listened to the rest of the meeting chastened in the shadows.
      As many of my loved ones have said to me before,  "Why can't you ever be serious for once?  "
      

    This week in Canada is Thanksgiving  Day which  coincides with the Christian Harvest Festival and arose from it. Our daughter asked if we would bring some of our homemade fruit wine from the cellar for the dinner. It's not rotgut but it is not stellar either.
     I usually serve that wine with family, but why is it that we take the people we love most for granted and don't often provide them with what we prize the most. Why should we reserve the quality wine for the dinner party for friends who we like, but do not love, and settle for less with the most important people in our lives.
      Because we can !
      Our three children,  Robert,  Anne and Ruth  are our blessing on this Thanksgiving week. Their unique gifts have given us joy that  begs expression throughout the year but becomes countenanced on Thanksgiving Day for us when it becomes apparent that their goodness and grace and care for mankind has been taken for granted and Thanksgiving day is a time to show it by bringing the best to the feast.